


Whiskey and Wine to Ease our Minds

by Starshearted (cthulhucorp)



Series: Soul Eater Ficlets + Drabbles [13]
Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alcohol, Also in which Death has a human form underneath that cloak and mask, Drinking & Talking, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Team Bonding, two sad old men being sad old men together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 17:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10926426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthulhucorp/pseuds/Starshearted
Summary: Lightning strikes somewhere outside, and out in the distance the boom of thunder screams through the crying night sky.





	Whiskey and Wine to Ease our Minds

**Author's Note:**

> This is not elegantly written as the wording may suggest
> 
> i'm very tired and i just really wanted to write my guilty pleasure ship

Spirit is on his second bottle of whiskey not even 10 minutes after getting home. Granted he did down an entire bottle at the bar, perhaps it's only suiting that he down another one when he arrives home. The most shocking part, though, is the fact that Spirit is barely even drunk at this point. Perhaps that a testament to the abuse his poor liver has gone through after all these years. Death, on the other hand, had gotten through no more than half a glass of wine ( surely the bar wouldn't miss one glass ). He's never been one to get drunk- Not that he can. Not off of any normal alcohol, that is. A special bottle or two are somewhere in the cellar of Death Manor, but even with them there Lord Death has never felt a twinge of temptation to get lost in the mind-numbing effects of drunkenness. It simply didn't... feel right. That did not, however, stop him from indulging in a glass of wine every so often- Or at least when Spirit demanded they go drinking together. The taste of it was more bearable, to say in the least, than most other alcoholic drinks.

They enter Deathscythes small apartment in silence, Spirit flicking on a light switch- Presumably one connected to an outlet, seeing as how a small lamp beside the couch flicks on- beside the door , and heading directly to the kitchen. _Most likely to grab another glass of whiskey_ , Death thinks, striding over to the couch and sinking into it, crossing one leg over the other. The half empty glass of wine is settled on the table beside the couch, the god grabbing the remote laying beside it and turning on the TV. The artificial light of the lamp is dim, barely enough to properly illuminate the poorly furnished living room. The TV stands before the couch and the coffee table, directly behind it a large window covered by black-out curtains and blinds. The curtains are pulled back just enough for Death to get a glimpse of the outside world. It's barely 10 pm, the sun having fallen quietly from the sky by now, replaced with the dark of night. A lamp post across the street flickers on and off, on and off, barely illuminating the sidewalk below. The rain beats heavily above the noise of the TV. Death doesn't turn the volume up. His golden gaze falls anyways to the small TV, it's screen displaying some sort of late-night cartoon on a channel called 'adult swim'. It's vulgar jokes are lost on the god of death, who leans back in his seat and grabs his glass of wine, taking a long swig.

The now empty glass is set back on the side table as Spirit joins him on the couch, passing him a little pink plastic cup full of whiskey. Despite his distaste, the god of Death accepts the offering, setting it beside the empty glass rather than taking a drink as Spirit does. They sit there, for a moment, as Spirit finishes his swig, leaning forward and setting his cup on the small coffee table in front of them both. He remains like that, leaned forward somewhat, resting his elbows on his knees. "So..." the Deathscythe started, reaching up and rubbing his neck in an almost nervous manner. His nervous actions are immediately noticed by the god of death, who can't help but allow a smile to grace his pale lips. They have done this dance so many times before, how could Spirit not know the moves by now? Perhaps that was the testament of an alcoholic mind.

"So," Death hummed, resting his hands in his lap. It's silent for a long moment, Spirit's gaze focused on the floor, Death's gaze focused on Spirit. The redhead moves, swift and almost graceful, moving to leaning against the back of the couch. Blue eyes locked with golden ones. Death smiles. "How has life been treating my number one Death Scythe, hm?" It elicits a laugh from Spirit, who shakes his head almost woefully.

"Oh, just fan-fuckin'-tastic," the strain in his voice is evident, the slight slurring of words an indication of the alcohol beginning to take it's effect on Spirit's mind and thoughts. But perhaps, it's not just the alcohol chimming it's blatant depressive mood. Life for Spirit has been 'fan-fuckin'-tastic', assuming 'fan-fuckin'-tastic' was meant with the sarcasm Death heard it with. The ever straining game of Deathscythe trying to get a grasp on himself and his reality, the ever depressing game of trying to cope with his daughter's dislike for him. Death could only imagine Spirit's pain. Kidd had once had a phase of anger towards Death, but it had faded so quickly the god could almost forget about it. He certainly wanted to forget about it, the pain he felt being ignored by his son. Unfortunately, a god does not forget, much like the clouds don't forget to rain. Spirit leans forward once more, grabbing his cup and taking a swig so long it leaves nothing more than silence and less than a shot of whiskey left in the little pink cup. "But it always is," the deathscythe grunted, leaning back once more and crossing his arms.

Death doesn't waste a moment, reaching forth and gently placing his hand on Spirit's thigh, brows furrowing in an emotion close to concern. "Do you wish to talk about it?" the old god mumbled, barely audible above the pounding of the rain outside. Yes, they have done this dance before. Two old, lonely men, being old and lonely together, their problems spilling forth. But, perhaps, it wasn't always just problems. Perhaps, sometimes they spoke of the happier times of their lives, the light and joy of their times spent on this hellish planet. And sometimes words were simply lost within actions. Spirit rests one of his own hands against Deaths, turning and staring directly at the god. Its times like these Spirit becomes fully aware just how much Death does not breathe. He is god, he has no need. But the lack of warm breath against his face is borderline concerning. For Death, the warmth is a welcomed comfort, of sorts. "I'm always here for you, Spirit." The voice speaking to him sounds so unfamiliar, completely foreign and different from the Death he often encounters in the death room. So happy sounding. So very false. But this is real. The caramel smooth voice, tinted with a hoarseness Spirit has heard only from the Death that arrives at a time like this, the slight of an accent he can't quite pin down from any certain spot on the map. Spirit laughs a little.

"Yeah," he muttered back. There is no need for loud voices. Death can hear the beating of Spirits' heart, even and calm. It is a beat that Death does not have to his life. A smile spreads, wide, across the deathscythe's face. "It's one of the goods things about being your partner." Deaths' laugh is as smooth as his voice, an aphrodisiac to Spirit's drunken mind. His own hand, placed calmly on top of Deaths, lifts. It rests on the other side of Death's body, pulling their bodies close together. Death knows this position all to well, bringing one leg up onto the couch, placing it behind Spirit. He grabs hold gently as Spirit brings his own leg up, placing it between Deaths as they lay there on the couch together, Lord Death resting awkwardly against the arm, Spirit holding himself above him, arms on either side of the gods body. Porcelain hands with nails sharp and black release their grip from the deathscythe's shoulders, sliding with an uncharacteristic gentleness up his neck, tangling into the red locks of the weapon. Lightning strikes somewhere outside, and out in the distance the boom of thunder screams through the crying night sky. It goes unnoticed by the two men, Spirit descending on the god, locking lips in a gentle kiss. Death is the one to tug him away. The god may not be the one to need oxygen, but that doesn't stop him from letting out a gentle sigh, playing lightly with Spirit's hair as the other man catches his breath.

"This isn't talking about it," the god mutters quickly, tugging Spirit down to rest against him, their chests touching, Death crossing one leg over one of Spirit's. The weapon hides his face quietly, pressing it to the crook of Death's neck.

"I know," he whispered, blue eyes closing as he held tight to the god. His god. His meister.

Lightning strikes somewhere outside.

"I know," Albarn whispers again, feeling Death move his hand, caressing the weapon's back.

The thunder follows closely behind.

 


End file.
